The concrete, steel and glass goliath that is Berlin has many wounds.
Berlin bleeds Green.
In some places this verdure oozes from the parks: places explicitly set aside for the leisure of Berlin’s inhabitants; places to go to feel a connection with the Earth; or to barbecue in the warm summer sunlight.
These wounds are great and gaping — impossible to miss as they rise from their grey surroundings — but in other places the Green is reclaiming the city in small ways.
Plants grow where they can, between the cobblestones, in the no-man’s land between S-Bahn tracks, poking out from gardens into the street.
It is as if they are reaching, grasping for human contact, for the clothes of unwary passersby to reclaim us into their wilderness.
Berlin bleeds Green
And the blood of Berlin is what keeps it alive.